


Aftermath

by Alterkrmn



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Post-Book(s), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-03-20 08:19:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3643245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alterkrmn/pseuds/Alterkrmn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the failed Apocalypse, Crowley is restless and more attached to Aziraphale than ever. Both must to figure out what to do now that they are on their own and only have each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [irisbleufic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/gifts).



> For our dear irisbleufic, because she always encourages people to write, and she's been an inspiration for me since I read her fics for the first time. I wish I could do something more to show my admiration and support.
> 
> Thanks so much to [Macdicilla](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Macdicilla) and [LadyZitle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyZitle) for helping me beta reading this first chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> (I will edit the rating and the tags as the story progresses).

Crowley stared at his impeccable white ceiling, waiting for sleep to finally come. It had been enough time since all the commotion had calmed down, and it was only fair to take a long nap, but for some reason—and despite the gentle sound of the raindrops tapping his window—it was not as simple as it seemed.

            He thought he’d always loved sleeping because it was the only way he could avoid his responsibilities and, at the same time, claim he was fulfilling them. Besides, it was an activity he could enjoy without having to do anything: it seemed he was a natural, indeed.

            He also often bragged—mostly in front of Aziraphale—about being able to sleep with only wishing it, just as he could also invoke or banish objects to his will. It really didn’t matter _where, when_ or _how long_ , the important point was that it was one of the few moments he could call his own.

            But in recent days—to be more specific, since Warlock’s chaotic birthday party and after knowing Warlock never was the boy they thought he was—to his absolute dismay, sleep was not something he could contemplate as easy, not even after having spent all that energy to thwart the Armageddon. And for the third time in his long life, he began to suffer from insomnia again.

            And after a while of not being able to sleep, every nerve of his human body began to feel unbearably tense making his neck, shoulders and back hurt. His weariness was evident in the way the circles under his eyes looked darker and his skin paler. It was also the way the slightest noise out of the ordinary made him jump: prolonged silences always had managed to make him anxious, and now that his flat seemed more silent than ever, it only increased the feeling that Hastur (or any other emissary from Hell) could appear at any moment to take his revenge for what he had and had not made the past week. Besides, not having news from Below made his paranoid state grew even more intense.

            Crowley really didn’t appreciate the apparent lack of a resolution from any of the sides involved in the almost-Apocalypse, even though—at least for now—it worked more in his favor than against him. He felt as if suspended in limbo, uncertain whether he should just pretend nothing ever happened and try to continue with his life. However, he didn’t think it wise to lower his guard so soon. The whole affair was maddening.

            Although he hated to admit it, he was a wreck of nerves, and the only moments he felt less disturbed were whenever Aziraphale was close. Maybe it was because after all, they had both faced their superiors to keep their beloved Earth intact and because the angel didn’t look as worried as he was. In fact, Aziraphale seemed oblivious of his anxiety, or if he was aware, managed to hide it very well, for which the demon was honestly and infinitely grateful. Crowley thought his friend—he had finally come to make peace with that dreadful word applied to them—took things with much more calm, and wished he could have the same attitude, that kind of acceptance only angels that did not fall from grace seemed to have.

            "Perhaps now it’s a good time to start thinking about ineffability," he said to himself while rolling under the silky bedsheets for the millionth time but thought better of it, “Nah, it’s enough with the angel thinking about that for both of us, I guess, and anyway, I don’t know what he thinks of all this right now”.

            It was more than obvious that sleep was not going to visit him that night as much as he strove, so he gave up and rolled out of bed. It was three in the morning and even when Aziraphale never slept, it didn’t seem a good idea to show up in the bookshop without a valid—or even credible—excuse just because he felt lonely and unnerved.

            He stared at the phone for several minutes, seriously considering the possibility of calling up. But in the end, instead of give in to temptation and  make a fool of himself, he turned on the TV and absently skipped channel after channel until the first rays of sunshine rose above the wet rooftops of the city. At least now, with daylight, he could invite the angel to breakfast without looking as desperate of company as he was.

 

***

 

            Without question, the days following the Apocalypse had been odd. Both he and Crowley had returned to their respective residences and tried to continue their old routines (lunch at the Ritz, the walks in St. James's Park, getting drunk in the backroom with some wonderful wine); yet somehow (and how!) the events broke the inertia that had been dragging them for the past six thousand years. Now everything was different. The superior powers kept silent, making him suspect that henceforth they really would be on their own. And even though the prospect was unclear and horrifying, they must figure out what to do next for their own good.

            He thought that maybe Adam and Eve had felt like this after being thrown out of Eden, except he and Crowley had the advantage of not having to struggle to get the things they needed to survive—and it was indeed much less than what those poor humans had needed back then (food or oxygen, for example).

            Despite all that, what worried him most was Crowley. The poor thing looked increasingly exhausted and anything out of the ordinary that seemed suspicious was enough to put him in a somber mood for the rest of the day. But, knowing the demon, he was careful to make any observations that might make the situation worse. He just offered tea and biscuits—or wine and other treats when necessary—and also tried to not exasperate when Crowley seemed particularly reluctant to go home after a nice evening in the backroom.

            He had never allowed himself to think in detail or even openly how vulnerable was Crowley, because after all their relationship was permeated by work—and also perhaps in an attempt not to admit that, even thousands of years before the Arrangement, their enmity had always been rather nominal than factual—and to show concern for the welfare of the enemy was not acceptable, except that at this point such excuses were not only ridiculous but also pathetic.

            There was no point to continue maintaining the facade: both Heaven and Hell already knew that he and his demonic counterpart were allied to stop what should have happened and if someone was coming for them, the side would be less important. At least they had not been discorporated or—to put it in a subtle way—relegated to permanent nonexistence, at least they still had the chance to still exist and fight if there was the need to, at least they still had each other.

            The angel let out a deep sigh and got up from the chair where he had been trying to read most of the past day—and the night—and stretched his legs. Then he went to the kitchen and made tea, more out of habit and the desire to feel some comfort than for the real need of something to drink.

            With the cup of steaming liquid in his hands, he watched through the, now free of dust windows of his renewed shop as the sky grew lighter. The familiar scent of black tea and bergamot rose to his nose and his glasses fogged and outside in the street he could hear how the city came to life again like every morning. And despite everything (doubt, disappointment, true fear), he felt very grateful because the world was still there.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley opened the window of his bedroom and took a deep breath of the cool morning air. The morning was still a little bit cloudy but the sun had managed to show itself enough to brighten the city. He noticed there were puddles everywhere, and thousands of droplets covered the Bentley's windscreen. It was a quite pleasant view .

            He got dressed with just a thought: flawless black suit, polished shoes and the eternal sunglasses protecting his golden eyes. Then he hurried out of his flat without even bothering to threaten the houseplants.

            Taking a moment to admire his car, he slightly brushed the black paint with his fingertips, as if afraid that it was not real, and when it did not collapse under his touch, he silently thanked Adam. Then got into the car and drove up to Soho, but not before making a stop to buy something to eat and share with Aziraphale.

            The traffic was intense as ever: endless columns of cars moved slowly through the still-wet asphalt. People with raincoats and umbrellas hanging in their arms lined the sidewalks as they headed to work, all of them living their lives as if the world had not been about to disappear just a few days ago.

            "Why do they have the privilege of being able to forget?" he thought, and wondered what it would be like not to have to deal with the burden of six thousand years of memories. As he thought about it, he somehow understood Lucifer, but that was the reason he ended doomed back in the day, wasn't it? He really needed to stop overthinking, and the only way that occurred to him to do it was to push the accelerator until it threatened to break, making the wheels screech as the renewed old Bentley outran dozens of cars. That was more like it, yes.

 

***

            “I brought breakfast, angel!” shouted Crowley, pushing the door of the shop with the toe of his shoe, since his hands were full with the take-away bags.

            Aziraphale didn't turn to look at him, as he still was a little bit absorbed by his own thoughts, but answered anyway. He was not surprised in the least to see the demon, although the hour was definitely unusual for someone as lazy as Crowley.

            “Oh, that is very considerate of you, my dear.”

            “That's because I am too much kind to be a demon, don't you think?” replied Crowley displaying one of his most cynical smiles and arching his left eyebrow cheekily. “You're welcome,” he added, and went to the back room to set the food on the table.

            “Is there any special reason to bring you here this splendid morning?” the angel asked as he drank the last sip of tea left in his cup.

            The demon shrugged.

            “Since when do I need a reason to share a meal with you, angel? Unless you're implying my presence is not welcome, in which case I'll just take all–” he made a sweeping gesture pointing to the table and cleared his throat “–that and throw it away.”

            “I did not imply anything like that, dear boy.”

            Aziraphale followed after Crowley and made eye contact with him, wearing an expression so serious it scared him.

            “Then I'll put the kettle on the fire.” His voice was soft and Crowley felt an immense relief. The angel inspected the bags with an approving look.

            “Be helpful and fetch the plates and cups.”

            Crowley did not answer, but diligently did as he was told while Aziraphale watched him with a puzzled expression. It was evident to him that beneath the demon’s cheerful gestures, he felt uneasy, tired, and even (maybe) sad, but the angel still could not gather the courage to ask him; instead, he just placed a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, led him to his usual spot and finished serving the food.

 

***

            They ate quietly and the silence felt heavy between them, mostly because it was unusual. In the past they used to talk about anything over dinner or lunch (from business to gossip about their respective now-former sides, from classic literature and philosophy to the atrocities of reality shows), but those past days it seemed wiser to just eat, exchange some reassuring glances or make a shallow comment about the quality of the wine. Except that, deep down, both knew they could not keep the situation that way for too long.

            It was then when Crowley yawned, hurrying to cover his mouth with the back of his hand, but the angel had already noticed it and was staring at him.

            "You shouldn't let it affect you like that, my dear."

            Now Crowley had slid his sunglasses over his head and was rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands.

            "What are you talking about?", snapped the demon, forgetting to set the shades in place again.

            "I haven't seen you like that since..."

            "Since when...?" asked Crowley, tone suspiciously smooth that definitely did not match the rest of his body language: he pursed his lips into a thin line and his entire being tensed like the string of a bow about to shoot an arrow.

            Aziraphale realized too late what he was saying, swallowed and mumbled something that sounded like _forget it_ and _I'm so sorry_. The angel remembered the fourteenth century and also that nasty _incident_ with the Spanish Inquisition: the look of horror in Crowley's eyes, and something inside his chest felt heavy. Then he kept talking as if he had said nothing. "Er... here, if you're done with this..." He stood awkwardly and took the empty plates from the table to the sink, always trying to avoid the demon's gaze.

            Crowley just sighed, folded his arms on the table and rested his forehead on them, waiting for the angel to finish washing dishes and return to the table, perhaps with a bottle of that promised 1975 Brunello di Montalcino. That would amend any slip of Aziraphale's tongue. It would even help with his bloody insomnia.

            He yawned again.

 

***

            When he finally arrived at the Upper Tadfield air base in the burning remains of the Bentley, what he saw was absolutely terrifying.

            In front of him it was an open field, so big it seemed endless. On one of the sides of the field there were those brainless weirdos with six wings covered with eyes and the other heavenly freaks with equally disturbing appearance, all of them armed and ready for battle. On the opposite side, he recognized the whole infernal hierarchy (his _co-workers_ , and others he—fortunately—never had seen in person but only heard talk about). Both sides had millions and millions of human pawns ready to destroy the enemy.

            And above all that, he saw a sky that glowed with emerald and crimson tones, and a cacophony that, for a not-human ear, would vaguely resemble singing or praying voices, but otherwise would sound like the wildest thunderstorm ever.

            "This cannot be happening," he said in a panicked whisper.

            "But it is, Crawly," answered a familiar voice behind him, "and you will have the _privilege_ of seeing it happen from the front row." And when Crowley finally turned, he found Hastur's mocking grin. "Now take a seat and enjoy the fireworks."

            Immediately after Duke Hastur pronounced those words, the stars began to fall upon the earth like a rain of fire and from some place beyond the horizon, the sound of hooves hitting the ground furiously preceded the arrival of the Four Horsemen.

            "No, no, no, no... this cannot be the end, this cannot be how all this ends." He wanted to run but it was pointless: within moments there would be no place to go.

            He felt devastated, and his whole body started to tremble with cold and fear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a super slow writer and I'm so sorry, but I promise I'm going to finish this fic, not only because I feel I have to, but because I am enjoying doing it. I have two more chapters in mind. Meanwhile, I want to thank you all for the patience and support. As always, comments are always appreciated.

Aziraphale wiped his hands on the dishcloth, and when he finally returned to the table, what he found was Crowley hunched over himself, squeezing his eyes and clenching his fists, shaking and sleep-talking, his pale forehead pearled with sweat.

                "Oh, goodness," he whispered and approached carefully, slowly, and touched Crowley's arm with his fingertips, tentatively. "Crowley? Can you hear me? Wake up, my dear." He shaked him slightly, but Crowley didn't respond. The demon was deeply asleep and, evidently, having bad dreams. Something inside the angel hurt seeing his friend—he was sure Crowley would scold him for calling him that, the fastidious thing—so vulnerable and fragile, felt like it was something he shouldn't be witnessing because Crowley always tried to appear nonchalant and cynical.

                He felt a little bit more than panicked and really didn't know what to do. He had never been really good at the part of his job that required being a guardian. It became clear since the days of the Garden. Over time, he had come to—secretly—admire those pertaining to the lowest level of Celestial Hierarchy, designated to take care of people in more direct ways, and thought he could use some experience in that area in the current circumstances. At least then he could be able to comfort Crowley, but he was almost as terrible as an angel as Crowley was as a demon. In fact, he considered himself really lucky that He had not decided to just throw him away as had happened with the fallen. Maybe by then He just had stopped caring, or maybe all of it had been part of The Bloody Ineffable Plan from the beginning. He sighed. It really was not the best moment to get philosophical, was it? He had something more urgent to worry about.

                He tried to reach out Crowley's head with his hand, but hesitated and withdrew it at the last moment. Then repeated the motion at least a couple of times until another violent shaking of Crowley's body persuaded him to stop being a coward. He took a deep breath and put two fingers of his right hand on Crowley's temple and let them rest there a few seconds, then started stroking the demon's silky dark hair with a slow rhythm, trying to project warmth and peace. Soon the demon stopped trembling but somehow it was not enough, because he still looked distressed: his brow furrowed and his eyes and jaw tightly clenched.

                It was at that precise moment, that Aziraphale decided to start talking. "Don't be afraid, my dear boy, I'm here with you, you're not alone... even if they come after us. I'll be here, I won't leave you." He repeated those words again and again, as if they were prayer.

                And after a while, Crowley's features finally looked peaceful: something Aziraphale had never had the privilege of seeing before and which changed his world forever. He smiled fondly. "That's it, dear. Everything is going to be alright." Then he decided it would be better to place the demon in a more comfortable position and carried him to the couch. He stared at Crowley for a long while before finally sitting in his favorite armchair.

Now being a guardian didn't seem so difficult after all.

 

***

                Hastur's sinister laugh reverberated in his ears, mixed with the chaotic noise of the Last Battle. Crowley could feel something running down his cheeks, and he didn't need to taste the hot liquid to know they were tears. He was crying, and for once he didn't even care if he looked pathetic or frail. But it wasn't just the certainty that everything around him was going to end: there was a bitterness on his tongue, a void inside him that appeared when he thought about the now-forever-lost possibility of stopping the end, because he couldn't do it without help, and what was the point if he was going to be wandering alone for the rest of eternity. "Why did you have to go, angel? You didn't have the right to go, We were going to stop this and now I can't... not without you", he said between sobs and fell to his knees, defeated, and waited.

                But then, instead of whichever destructive holy force he was supposed to feel—like the ground collapsing under his feet—he felt a sweet warmth surrounding him and noticed the roar of the clash had just faded away. Crowley looked up in confusion, tears already drying on his face. He was not at the airbase anymore: no Battle, no Heavenly or Hellish hosts; the sky didn't look menacing anymore, if he were to trust that incredibly clear cerulean shade above him. In fact, the place looked like St. James's Park, lake and ducks included, but for some reason Crowley couldn't grasp, something didn't fit.

                He remained still in the soft grass for a while, wary of what should he do next, when he heard the so-well-known voice of Aziraphale: ubiquitous and infuriatingly soothing. "Don't be afraid, my dear boy, I'm here with you, you're not alone..."

                "Angel? Where are you? Angel!" he called, but received no answer. He scanned all the place as far as his eyesight let him—that was saying something—until he finally saw a familiar figure sitting on one of the benches. He did not think it twice and got up as fast as he could, almost stumbling, and ran in Aziraphale’s direction.

                "What's going on, angel?" almost miraculously, he managed not to yell, his tone somewhat between outraged and confused. "I thought you were dea... I saw the shop in flames, and you were not there."

                Aziraphale barely lifted his chin, looking over to the spot where the demon was standing, but remained still,sporting an unreadable (almost beatific) smile. 

                Crowley hated that blessed smile, but at the moment it made easier his transition of mood from terrified to bewildered to frankly exasperated. "So, are you going to explain anything? Because just a moment ago I was witnessing The Bloody Apocalypse and now, all of a sudden I’m here, too tired to even try to figure it out," he snapped.

                "It’s just a dream, my dear", replied Aziraphale.

                "What?"

                "Just a dream," said Aziraphale's voice from somewhere above both of them (or around, it was difficult to tell precisely).

                "Oh," Crowley murmured, realization finally showing on his face. Then he tried to walk towards the angel, but as soon as he moved, everything around him vanished. 

 


End file.
